


Alternate Reality

by Aragarna



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Reality, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3462938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aragarna/pseuds/Aragarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Neal hadn't planned to fake his death? Alternative ending to the finale episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternate Reality

“You mark my words,” Keller said. “Burke and the Feds, they'll find a way to keep you on your leash a little longer.”

Neal shook his head. “I have a contract. They can’t screw me over this time.”

Keller shrugged. “You’re such a fool, Caffrey. But that’s your loss, not mine. As much as I’d love seeing you admit that I was right, I’m not gonna stay here any longer. See you around.”

He got up and walked to the door of the van. Neal jumped to his feet and threw himself between Keller and the door. “Don’t!”

Keller shoved him aside and Neal violently hit the wall of the van.

“Let me go, Caffrey,” Keller said, with a cold threatening voice.

Neal refused to. He grabbed Keller’s arm, which threw him off balance. They fell on the hard floor with a bang. Keller struggled to get away from Neal, but Neal wouldn’t let go of him. There was no way he would jeopardize the whole deal now. He had been working too hard for his freedom to let Keller ruin it all, so close to the finish line. He wouldn’t risk being accused of letting a murderer go.

Suddenly, Neal caught the flash of a blade. Keller had a knife. Before he could react, he felt the cold and sharp metal tear his skin and enter deep in his abdomen, ripping violently through the muscle. An acute pain immediately radiated through his body and he released his hold. Shocked, he looked up at his opponent, who freed himself and got up. With one last look at Neal lying on the floor, Keller slammed open the doors of the van and jumped out.

Neal could feel the blood escaping through the large wound, soaking his shirt. Pressing a hand against it and clenching his jaw against the pain, he stumbled to his feet and dragged himself to the door. Outside, several agents were surrounding the van, probably attracted by the commotion their fight created. They had their guns drawn and aimed at Keller, who was standing right outside the van, visibly unclear on how to escape what looked like a dead end. As Neal appeared at the door, Keller briskly grabbed him by the collar, forcing him out of the van and pushing him in front of him, using him as a human shield.

Forced to stay upright, Neal was feeling light-headed. His vision was turning fuzzy and dark. He sensed, more than he saw, Peter running to the scene. Almost instantly, Neal felt the cold blade of Keller’s knife pressing his throat.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

He heard screams, and when he turned around he saw agents running to the van where Neal and Keller were kept. Immediately, his gut told him something very wrong was happening. Peter drew his weapon and ran toward the agents gathered around the van. He couldn’t see what was going on, and elbowed his way through the circle of agents, so that he could assess the situation.

What he saw made his heart flinch.

Keller had Neal hostage, holding him against him as a human shield, with a knife pressed against his carotid. But the most alarming part was that Neal’s shirt was soaked with blood around the abdomen. And from the sight of it, he had lost _a lot_ of blood. Neal himself seemed to be in a lot of pain, and was terribly pale. Peter felt anger boil in his veins.

“Keller, what did you do?”

He aimed his gun at Keller’s head. “Drop your weapon,” he threatened, resolutely menacing.

“Stay where you are, Burke, or I swear I’ll slice his throat,” Keller shot back, pressing the blade further, slightly cutting through Neal’s skin.

Keller started walking backward, dragging Neal with him, despite the difficulty the injured man had staying on his feet. Keller’s arm, tightly strapped around Neal’s chest, was the only thing preventing him from falling over. He looked like he was about to pass out, and the forced standing position probably wasn’t helping him.

Not willing to let Keller slip through their fingers again, Peter took a step closer, but Keller pressed his blade further on Neal’s throat. Blood dripped from the cut down to Neal’s collar. Peter stopped immediately.

“Don't come any closer, Burke. Don't do it.”

Keller was breathing heavily between his clenched teeth. But his hand holding the knife was firm and still.  His eyes were shining with a very cold sparkle. He wasn’t afraid to kill someone in cold blood, Peter knew it. He was really going to kill Neal if he had to. Peter hated these situations. But he wouldn’t let Keller take Neal’s life. He’d have to take his responsibility even though it would be a risky shot.

“You let him go, Keller!”

“I'm tired of taking orders from you, so right now we're gonna do this my way. So do as I say, and he lives. Or maybe not.  Might be too late for Caffrey. It’s a sad day, Peter Burke. But if you let me go now, there's still time to say good-bye,” he added with a cold grin.

For a fraction of a second, Peter focused on Neal, looking for his gaze. The young man was looking for his too. _Take the shot_ , Neal silently conveyed, eyes locked on Peter’s, understanding the unspoken question. _Hold on_ Peter sent back.

Peter’s gaze shifted very slightly, to refocus on Keller. This was too crucial. Peter wouldn’t let Keller get to him. His eyes narrowed as he called his inner, cold, bad cop. He locked his jaw and assured his hold on the gun, aiming his shot on Keller’s forehead. If his eyes had a laser, the red dot would be right between Keller’s eyes. The crook must have felt it, the blade slightly slid against Neal’s throat and a few more drops of blood appeared. But it never went through. The bullet hit him in the head, and both men fell to the ground.

A deadly silence followed the shot, briskly broken as Peter ran to Neal, shouting orders to call 911 and secure the scene. Someone took care of Keller, pulling him away from Neal, and Peter focused all his attention on his friend. He knelt down by his side. Neal looked terribly pale, his eyes were closed, and he seemed unconscious, but his shallow breathing indicated he was still alive. The cut on his throat was only superficial and nothing to worry about, thankfully. Just a scratch, really. The wound on his abdomen, however, was a different matter. The blood was still flowing through the large cut in the fabric, dark and thick, soaking Neal’s shirt and suit pants. Peter took a deep breath and pressed on the wound. Neal moaned in pain and opened his eyes. Peter put his other hand on his friend’s shoulder, reassuring.

“It’s okay, Neal,” he said. “An ambulance is coming. We're gonna get you out of this.”

Despite the pain, and in contrast with moments before, Neal looked strangely calm, almost peaceful.  Peter wasn’t sure if this was good or not.

“I don't think so,” Neal breathed.

“Don't... don't say that,” Peter implored.

“You're the only one who saw good in me.”

Peter’s heart missed a bit. “Stop it, Neal.”

“You're my best friend,” Neal said again.

Peter clenched his jaw to hold back the tears. This couldn’t be. This wasn’t happening. He wouldn’t let Neal die on his watch.

“Don’t – don’t say things you’ll regret admitting when you’ll wake up,” he said, trying to sound casual and confident, but miserably failing. But Neal wasn’t listening anymore anyway. He had closed his eyes, and his head had slowly lolled to the side, against Peter’s hand.

Afraid to make any move, Peter kept his hold on Neal’s wound until the ambulance arrived and paramedics forced him out of their way to haul Neal away on a gurney. Standing there, helpless and terrified, with Neal’s blood all over his hands, Peter watched as they gave Neal the first emergency care, transported him into the ambulance, until they slammed the doors and disappeared in the distance.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

  
“Would you like to see him, now?”

Peter nodded, his throat still too tight to let out any sound. Mozzie by his side, he followed the doctor to Neal’s room.

Neal had been admitted to surgery, where they had to stitch up some internal organs. The procedure seemed to have lasted forever. It had remained touch and go for a long time. A time that Peter and Mozzie had spent anxiously wandering in the waiting room of the Surgery floor. Mozzie was obviously tense. He kept sending suspicious looks to anyone who approached them too close and to all the electronic devices he could see – and that could see him, probably. To say that Mozzie was uncomfortable was a sincere understatement. Yet, he refused to leave. After exhausting, nerve-racking hours of uncertainty, Neal apparently decided to fight his way back after all and, all stitched up, he was taken to the recovery room, and later, to a private room. Now they just had to wait for him to wake up.

Neal was resting peacefully in his hospital bed. He was terribly pale, and the IV lines and monitors he was hooked up to were a little unsettling to see, but his breathing was easy and even. Peter and Mozzie took a chair and sat each on a side of Neal’s bed, keeping vigil for their friend.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Peter startled. He must have fallen asleep at some point. He wasn’t sure how long he had been out, but it was now pitch dark outside. Rubbing his eyes, he looked up to check on Neal. To his surprise and delight, the young man was awake and looking at him. A soft smile brushed his lips and Peter smiled back.

“Hey buddy,” he said fondly. “You got us a little scared there. You’re okay now.”

Mozzie, who was sleeping too, stirred and stretched in his chair. “Welcome back, mon frère,” he said in a sleepy voice.

Neal stared intensely at Peter, looking for something in the depth of his blurry memories. “Keller?” he asked finally, his voice a little raspy.

“Dead,” Peter said flatly as he handed Neal a glass of water. “And the Panthers are in custody, awaiting their indictment.”

Neal nodded very lightly.

“You understand what that means?” Peter asked, as his friend didn’t seem to register the news.

Neal looked at Peter, who could hardly contain his grin, then at Mozzie, on the other side, who was a mix of relief and excitement – Peter hoped that it was a rightful, law-abiding excitement.

“You’re free,” Peter finally said, grinning from one ear to another.

Neal’s gaze went back to him, and then slowly drifted to his anklet-free ankle.

“That’s right, no more anklet. You did it, Neal, you’re free!” Peter repeated. “I’d hug you, but…”

Instead, he simply squeezed Neal’s shoulder gently.

“I’ll believe it when I see the ink dry on my release paper.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Mozzie said, “we won’t let them screw us.”

“You honored your contract. It’s for real, this time. No loophole.” Peter added fiercely.

Mozzie nodded. “Between your handler and your lawyer, they don’t stand a chance,” he concluded.

A bright smile slowly illuminated Neal’s face as he finally managed to process it all. “I’m free,” he echoed.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Neal’s first day back at work was also his last day. The only reason he had to come back was to sign his official release papers and fill out some more paperwork regarding his work with the FBI. He also had an official hearing, though this was pure formality, as per Neal’s contract, the FBI had to let go of him. Of course, Neal complained all the way to the office about the hassle it was to go back just to be released, but Peter could hear behind the grumble, the excitement, and a little nervousness too.

The hearing was scheduled at 3:00 PM on the 20th floor, and the farewell party at 4:30 PM in the conference room of the White Collar division. At 2:55, Peter met Neal at the elevator. “Good luck, partner,” he said, his voice rigged with more emotion that he would admit.

 Fidgeting with his tie, Neal shot him a touched smile and disappeared into the elevator.

The moment Neal came back to the office, Peter, who had been keeping an eye on the bullpen the whole hour, rushed out of his office and called Neal out from the balcony.

Neal lightly jogged up the stairs and Peter let him in. He seemed relax and happy.

“So I’m assuming it went well?” Peter asked.

Neal nodded. “It did. It sounded like you didn’t give them much of a choice, anyway. Here is my release,” he said, brandishing a stack of papers. “Which means you don’t get to give me that two-fingers anymore.”

Peter grinned. “Actually, I can, until I put my final signature on this.”

Neal’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “I suppose…”

Peter shot him a falsely offended look. “You wouldn’t think of committing a crime by forging my signature?”

“Of course not!” Neal said, shooting his most innocent smile, as he handed Peter his release papers that were now only missing his handler’s signature.

Peter shook his head and sat back at his desk. The pen felt heavy in his hand. That was it. Neal was leaving for good. Their partnership was coming to an end. Neal was a free man, now. Peter swallowed back the lump in his throat and quickly signed the papers, before handing Neal his copy.

Peter walked around his desk and put his hands on Neal’s shoulders. “I’m proud of you, Neal.”

Neal shot a shy smile and looked down. “I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for you, Peter. You saw the good in me, you showed me another me.” He bit his lips and shrugged to hide his emotion. “Thank you.”

“Come on, let me give you a hug now,” Peter said, feeling tears rising at the corner of his eyes.

They fell into each other’s arms for a long and heartfelt accolade. Peter was reluctant to let go, and Neal didn’t seem particularly inclined to, either.

Finally, Peter pulled away and grabbed an empty box that was sitting in a corner of his office, handing it to Neal. “Go and clear your desk. The party is about to start in the conference room. There’s champagne.”

Neal grinned. “And how could I pass up a last chance to drink cheap champagne out of paper cups?”

Peter laughed. “Exactly.”

Neal seemed to have a sudden idea. “Wait here,” he ordered, running to his desk and back. He handed Peter the bust of Socrates.

“I want you to have it,” he said, slightly out of breath.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Socrates?”

“Yes,” Neal nodded.

“What is it with you and Socrates anyway?”

Neal’s eyes sparkled. “His philosophy on Justice as opposed to Revenge reminded me of you.”

Peter smiled. “And even though everyone knows his name, all his work is alleged.”

“That, too,” Neal admitted with a grin.

Peter took the bust from Neal’s hands and put it on his desk, next to the plastic apple.

“And what is it with you and that apple?” Neal asked.

Before Peter could answer, Diana stucked her head through the door. “Boys, we’re waiting for you!”

Peter clapped a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “Let’s get a drink.”

They walked to the conference room. The entire team was already there. Jones served them a cup of champagne and they all drank together to a straighter future for Neal. Peter watched, as everyone shook hands with Neal, wishing him the best, thanking him for one thing or another. Neal had really made himself a place in the White Collar team. This sight of Neal being celebrated by all the team made him feel all fuzzy inside. Or maybe it was just the champagne.

Much later that evening, Peter parked in front of June’s mansion.

“My regards to Sara,” he said with a wink. Now that he was a free man again, nothing was stopping Neal from reconnecting with his old flame, and he was leaving for London the following day.

Neal looked up at Peter. “Thank you, for everything,” he said once again.

As he opened his door to exit the car, Peter called him back.

“Hey, don’t be a stranger, come and visit sometimes.”

“I will, Peter. That’s a promise.”

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

The next morning, Peter was pensively drinking his coffee. Work would be a lot less exciting without Neal around. Not that he’d admit it. To anyone asking, he was glad to be rid of the constant havoc brought by Neal’s complicated life, and the headaches of writing coherent case reports while keeping his partner out of trouble.

“You okay, Hon?” Elizabeth asked.

Peter looked up from his mug and smiled at El. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“You miss him already, don’t you?”

“No!” Peter protested, probably a little too vehemently. “I’m looking forward to a smooth and peaceful mortgage fraud today.”

Elizabeth slid her arms around his waist, and Peter kissed her tenderly.

At that moment they heard a knock on the door, and before Peter could even react, Neal opened the door and walked in, all smiles.

“Burkes! I hope I’m not too late for breakfast. I brought cronuts,” he cheered, brandishing a bag of pastries.

Peter shook his head, shooting Neal an incredulous look. “Neal, what are you doing here?!”

“I still have a few hours before going to the airport, and I didn’t know what to do…”

Elizabeth took the bag from Neal and gave him a short hug.

“And of all places you could have gone to, you chose here,” Peter said.

“Neal, honey, would you like some coffee with your pastries?”

Neal sat at the breakfast table. “I’d love to, thank you, Elizabeth,” he said, grinning, while looking mischievously at Peter.

Peter sat back in front of his coffee. He wasn’t missing Neal _that_ much, after all.

 

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Peter slowly opened his eyes. He tried to hold onto that delicious feeling of peaceful joy that filled his dreams and was still pursuing him as he slowly emerged. But, like every time, reality caught up to him, and melancholy settled in. It was all the more painful that his dreams felt so real. But the serenity he felt for the time they lasted was such a sweet balm to his bruised heart. He knew it was a poisonous balm, he knew he shouldn’t give into this chimera, but Peter couldn’t resolve himself to let it go. In the realm of his dreams, Neal was alive. Neal was free.

He turned to his side and cuddled against Elizabeth. He wrapped an arm around her round belly and buried his head in her hair. Elizabeth stirred slightly. They didn’t exchange a word, but she took his hand and pressed a delicate kiss on its back.

He _was_ missing Neal that much.

 

FIN.

 


End file.
